He is a gentle man with an apricot smile, a sensitive soul who scars at the touch.
Even when sober, he drips generous beer and whistles like bagpipes on a misty Scottish moor.
Fish know his real name; the rest of us guess.
Traveling with a German shepherd instead of a compass, he heads out like a gypsy in search of the moon.
Those of us wanderers who meet him along the way have the imprint of his hand burned upon our shoulders, a fitting tattoo for one such as he.
I whisper his name to the dark of the night and imagine he hears me wherever he is.